


Brotherhood

by erwneoten



Category: Warcraft, World of Warcraft
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-02
Updated: 2013-04-02
Packaged: 2017-12-07 06:27:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/745347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/erwneoten/pseuds/erwneoten
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Koltira finds himself awake after a long chase in the woods that ended in his death, with the man who killed him offering friendship. Post-WCIII, Pre-Wrath. Gen for now, may get M/M later.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Brotherhood

“Do it. Be a mindless pawn and forever damn your soul.”

Those final, biting words were still fresh on Koltira’s lips as he awoke suddenly on a cold stone floor. He gasped for breath, filling his crumbling lungs with stale, putrid air, frigid as the ground he lay on, and fumbled to push himself up. His arms were weak, atrophied from disuse, and though he could feel some foreign, terrible power flowing through them, it was not enough, and he collapsed with a grunt, pressed once more to the masonry.

What had happened? He wracked his mind, adding to the swarming, throbbing headache that was already forming. A moment ago he had been laying in the charred remains of Eversong Woods, that cowardly knight’s sword lodged through his chest. He had seen his blood spill over the grass, his entrails tumble out, his vision blur. He had felt his skin go numb as blackness washed over him, felt the pain ebb away as his consciousness faded with his final breath... or so he thought. Perhaps it had been a dream? Just an awful nightmare? The city hadn’t fallen, it couldn’t have. The elfgates were still in place, his brother was safe, and he had not just been skewered over a Death Knight’s blade. It was all some twisted night terror, he told himself, trying to put aside the rapidly-growing feeling of unease in his gut, because none of that could possibly happen. He could not be dead, his people could not be in ruins, it was unthinkable! And yet...

Koltira thumbed absently at his chest, where a moment ago he had so vividly felt a blade protruding. Along his sternum was a messily-healed scar, six inches long at least, crossing his heart. His unbeating heart. His mind quieted for a moment, and he realized he wasn’t breathing. He hadn’t been since he’d awoken. Numb horror and shock spread from his fingers, still stroking the scar in disbelief, and burned through the rest of his body. His mind was racing tenfold. He was dead, he wasn’t dreaming. He was dead, as was his brother, his friends, his family, his people. It was all real, they had corrupted his lands, destroyed his city, his home--

A voice sounded in his mind, sending his frenzied thoughts into a terrified silence. It was not booming, nor monstrous, but cold and cruel. It whispered to him, quiet yet no less menacing, no less commanding, and the dark power he had felt flowing through him as he awakened flared up, dancing within him at the joyous sound of its master’s voice. It poured through his veins and pounded in his ears as blood once had, nourishing his parched muscles and starved senses. It felt euphoric, narcotic, hypnotizing and empowering him. The voice, dark and frozen, rang through his mind, terror dulled by command and the promise of more energy. He wanted to listen, he must listen.

You have no home, Death Knight. The Scourge is your home.

The audacity of the voice’s claim snapped Koltira back to reality, if only for a moment. He was no Death Knight; he couldn’t be, he wouldn’t be. The bastard who had killed him was one, he would never join his foul, cowardly ranks. But the voice in the back of his mind was persistent. The wicked power within him flared up once more, burning the nerves it had awakened moments before. The voice that commanded him was merciless; he had no choice in the matter. He had been given a most prodigious gift, to squander it, ungrateful, would mean a worse fate than death. The elf rasped out a cry, his voice hoarse, as he fought the dark presence for control over his own mind.

Footsteps approached as he whimpered, slow and calm, plate boots on stone, quieting the war in his head. They ceased inches from him, followed by the slight rustling of chainmail. Tentatively, Koltira opened his eyes for the first time since he awakened in this abysmal state. Before him knelt a human knight in shadowy plate armor, a dog-like grin upon his pallid, bearded face. The knight from the forest. The knight who killed him. Koltira clutched at the scar running down his chest, lips curling into a silent snarl.

“Morning, sunshine,” the human spoke, his lighthearted tone incongruous with his intimidating appearance. “How goes the transformation?”

Koltira spat in the man’s face. He only chuckled, wiping it off as he clicked his tongue.

“I trust the Master’s voice hasn’t quite set in yet?”

“What have you done to me?” the elf hissed, baring his teeth. The man quirked a brow, his amused smirk fading slightly. He laid his arm on one knee, and leaned closer.

“I’ve given you a gift, Brother. The best damn second chance you’ll ever get, the chance to be part of something big, something powerful. That voice in your head is the Lich King, our Master, he’s inviting you to become one with our order, one with the Scourge.” He leaned back to his original position, giving Koltira a hard, but not unkind look. “If I were in your place-- and I was, once-- I’d accept his offer. A strong will is one thing, but stubbornness in the face of opportunity will only net you punishment.”

Koltira was silent for a moment, glaring up past the human, his mind racing. This man had slain him, he was no friend, and yet the voice in his mind, the voice of the Lich King, murmured temptingly, the power undulating beneath his skin, within his grasp. He was chosen, the voice whispered, chosen out of all his pathetic brethren to join the vast undead armies of the Scourge. This was privilege, a promise, a gift. His strength and resolve would be rewarded, if only he would choose to step up and claim what was being offered.

The elf paused for a moment, his face stern and contemplative, before looking again towards the human before him. The man waited patiently, his expression somewhere between smirking and smiling, almost mistakable for friendly. Succulent morsels of power writhed, tantalizing, within his veins.

“If I joined you...,” he spoke slowly, thoughtfully, “I’d slay innocents, thousands in your name.” He awaited an answer, his gaze grim and judging. The man grinned, and responded as if by clockwork, guided by an unseen hand, an echo of the voice in the back of Koltira’s mind.

“They are weak, warm, and stupid with emotion. They do not deserve life, let alone undeath. You’ve been saved from that. You can be so much stronger, you can save others, you can eradicate those too weak to be saved. You could be our brother.” The human’s voice diverged from the disembodied one, catching Koltira off guard. He seemed surprised as well, his expression momentarily shifting from smug kindness to bewilderment. He shook his head slightly, raising a glaived hand to his face before turning again to the elf.

“You could be Scourge.”

He held out his hand to Koltira, expectantly. The human’s mouth was once again half-smirking, half-smiling, but his icy blue eyes held something more. He furrowed his brow, staring from the man’s hand to his face, and back again. There was friendliness in his eyes, out of place but not unwelcome. He was not offering, he was asking. Begging, even, for Koltira to join him. The elf steeled himself, pursing his lips, and took the hand.

At once, power surged through him, filling up every inch of his body, flowing through every joint, every limb. It was ecstasy, it was life, but so much more. True strength, a body enriched and a mind bound with terrific, terrible magic, enhanced but also deformed. He pulled himself to a stand using the human’s hand, alarmed by how cold the other’s touch was. He was dead now, too, Koltira reminded himself. His skin was likely just as cold.

“Thassarian,” the man said as he pulled the elf to his feet, ruddy grin still marking his face. He seemed pleased, perhaps eager. “I’ll show you around for now, but you won’t be coddled for long, not here. Your name?”

Koltira stared dumbly at the human for a moment. Thassarian. All that time running around the forest, all that cat-and-mouse, and he hadn’t even known the man’s name. The force within him swelled threateningly, and he shook the thought from his head. 

“Koltira.”


End file.
